


nobody knows the trouble i’ve been (or the exacting improvement of sin)

by higgsbosonblues



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Canadian Grand Prix 2018, D/s, M/M, Max needs some self control, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Denial, Red Bull Fuckery, Rimming, Spanking, a bit angsty?, daniel runs these streets, not too bad though, post press conference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 03:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14946953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/higgsbosonblues/pseuds/higgsbosonblues
Summary: Max needs to learn some self-control.





	nobody knows the trouble i’ve been (or the exacting improvement of sin)

**Author's Note:**

> I think we can all agree that however much Red Bull want to keep up their party team credentials, the atmosphere in that team is getting _pretty fucking weird_ again. 
> 
> I started writing this after Monaco because I was so fascinated by how completely calm and in control Dan was all weekend, especially compared to Max. Then the whole Canada press conference happened (which, for the record, I think was blown totally out of proportion but it made good fic inspiration so whatever) and I read an interview with Dan where he said he’d happily give Max some advice if he asked for it. 
> 
> Mostly I just wanted an excuse to write my two favourite things (snarky dialogue and kink) and to explore the increasingly odd dynamic between them. 
> 
> Enjoy, and feel free to indulge my penchant for psychoanalysing men I’ve never met in the comments!

He and Daniel have a lot in common, Max thinks as he makes his way through the warren of corridors behind the Red Bull garage after the press conference. More than a proclivity for getting drunk and partying, whatever Dan will say for the cameras. Recently, though, he can't help but think there's a lot that separates them too.

Dan is waiting for him in the hospitality unit, sprawled over a moulded plastic chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him. The tanned skin of his bare ankles is visible between his Vans and the hems of his jeans. His headphones lie on the table in front of him, the wire dangling off the edge. He's wearing shades, but Max can still feel his gaze, expectant.

“Save it,” he says shortly as he walks past. Dan raises his eyebrows over the rims of his sunglasses, lifts one hand in a languid arc meant to convey _what, me?_ which doesn't fool Max for a moment, particularly as the wall-mounted TV directly in Dan’s field of vision is tuned to Sky Sports F1.

Max shakes his head once, changes his mind about sitting down and joins the short queue at the food counter. He stares morosely at all the different carbs he's not meant to be eating for a couple of seconds before indicating some kind of tomato bake thing that looks like it won't make his trainer cry too much, and a side salad instead of the French fries he actually wants.

He's sort of tempted to go and sit on his own, or maybe to go back to his room to eat, but the prickle at the back of his neck tells him half the garage is surreptitiously watching for his reaction and it irks him. Why should he run and hide from his own damn team just because the press can't be bothered to think up a new line of questioning? So he smiles and thanks the girl who pours him a green juice, trying to ignore the cans of Coke sweating temptingly in the refrigerator right next to his head. He makes his way over to Dan’s table with his laden tray, sliding into the chair opposite him and stabbing his fork into a piece of chicken with only slightly more force than required.

Dan folds his arms across his chest. He's reclined so far into the chair that Max has to sit sideways in his own seat to avoid Dan’s feet. His body is almost one straight line, and it must be hurting his back. To Max he looks like someone making an awful lot of effort to look relaxed. Max’s shoulders, by contrast, feel like they’re hunched somewhere around his ears.

“They fixed my MGU-K,” Dan says without preamble.

“Adrian said it was fried,” Max says through a mouthful. Begrudgingly he notices that the tomato thing is actually pretty tasty.

Dan shakes his head. “Nah. The other one. The old one.”

“Cool,” Max says once he's swallowed. “So no grid penalties? That's good.”

Dan nods, grinning in that shit-eating way he has that should make people want to slap him but somehow doesn't. He glances at Max slyly. “You bet. Enjoy the presser?”

“Fuck off,” Max says, shovelling in a large mouthful of salad leaves to underscore the fact that he doesn't want to talk about it.

“Yeah, looked that way,” Dan says, still grinning, and Max opens his mouth, shows him the gross mouthful of half-chewed food by way of an answer. Dan snorts a laugh but doesn't react otherwise. His arms are still folded across his chest; he's tapping out a rapid rhythm with his thumb where it grips the opposite elbow. Max doesn't think he's ever truly seen Dan sit still. He’s always gesturing, tapping, plucking at his clothes. Sometimes Max catches himself unconsciously mirroring Dan’s movements; there's something slightly hypnotic about the way his hands move. He takes a sip of his green juice thing and pulls a face, the bitter taste of wheatgrass setting his teeth on edge.

“Still, that guy was from the Daily Mail,” Dan says. “They’ll crucify you, you know that, right?”

“Why don’t you go and play with your new friends in the red garage?” Max says snippily, even though he knows that's crossing a line. Dan juts his chin, his smile fading, and narrows his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Now who’s asking stupid questions?” Dan lowers his voice a little, pulling his feet in and propping one foot up on the opposite thigh in a pose that looks near-impossible given how tight his jeans are. “Are you being an arsehole for any particular reason today, or does it just come naturally to you?”

Max glowers at him and bends over his plate again. He'd rather eat a tyre than admit it, but Dan has a point. His teammate hasn't done anything to him per se, other than managing to come up smelling of roses while Max can feel the negative headlines being written about him as they speak. Again.

Dan sighs and twists in his seat, scanning the bar for something and apparently not finding it. He turns back to Max. “You know they're not gonna stop asking. Especially not when you react like that.”

“Just because you're older than me doesn't mean you get to give me advice like you know so much more,” Max snaps, pushing his plate away.

Dan throws his hands up in exasperation. “Jesus Christ, you’re hard work,” he mutters under his breath. He snaps his gum irritably- he must be the only person left on earth who still likes Juicy Fruit and Max can smell the synthetic fruit scent across the table.

Max finds himself wanting, pointlessly, to push it further, see what he can get away with. He knows it's an ugly trait, has seen his father do it countless times, goading, but right now he's revelling in it. He's wound up so tight and Dan is pushing his buttons so willingly. It's like scratching a bug bite until it bleeds: the pleasure of scratching the itch is only heightened by the pain.

“If you’d said the same thing they'd have thought it was funny,” Max says bitterly, and immediately hates himself. He sounds jealous and petulant to his own ears. Still, it's the truth and they both know it: Dan with his easy charm and flirtatious humour would have had the room in the palm of his hand, whereas Max’s frustration boils always just below the surface of his skin. The press can smell it on him, how easily his self-control frays.

Dan looks at him for a long moment. “Stoffel laughed,” he says eventually, a peace offering of sorts, and Max rolls his eyes. He's only eaten a few mouthfuls but his stomach feels overly full, a twist in his gut making the food sit like a rock. He wants Dan to make some joke about how he can't help people falling in love with him, something to break the tension even if it is infuriatingly true, but Dan just looks at him steadily, his eyes veiled behind his shades. Max holds his gaze for a few seconds, then shrugs and looks away.

There's a long silence, and Max sighs, the anger abruptly draining from him. He stares out of the plate glass windows behind Dan’s shoulders, watching the sparse crowds milling about outside. Thursdays at the track always have an unfinished quality. “Christian thinks I need more self-control.”

Dan shrugs. “I don't think that’s exactly what he said.”

“It's what he meant, though,” Max says, staring at the bitten skin around his fingernails. “He said I’m trying too hard.”

Dan tilts his head. “Christian says a lot of stuff to the press, mate. You know that.”

“But you think he's right.” He doesn't phrase it as a question.

Dan shrugs one shoulder. “Doesn't matter what I think,” he says, and there's no malice in his voice. Max glances up at him and cringes inwardly at Dan’s expression, which is earnest and a little bit worried. Anger, he can deal with.

“I'm not going to change the way I race,” he says, insistent, setting his jaw.

“You already said,” Dan says, inclining his head to the TV. “And I didn't ask.”

Max huffs out a frustrated breath. “I'm going to the gym,” he announces, and Dan nods like he thinks that's a good idea. Max pulls his earphones out of his pocket and puts music on loud enough to hurt, and when he gets to the gym at the hotel he chooses a treadmill tucked away in a corner and runs until he has a stitch, sweat sluicing from him, the sharp ache in his chest feeling good.

 

He still can't settle even after he gets back to his room and showers. His family aren't here this weekend, which is freeing in a way but part of him wishes he could just go for dinner with them and distract himself, get out of his own head for a bit. He feels keyed up, frustration souring into a kind of mental itch that stops him from being able to relax.

He sighs and unlocks his phone, scrolling through his texts to see whether there's anything happening that he can get involved in, but nothing catches his attention. He considers going back to the track to get his PlayStation from the drivers room where he'd left it, but even that thought is unappealing. He groans and takes his cap off to scrub his hand through his hair in frustration.

Fuck it. He unlocks his phone again. _You free?_ he sends to Dan.

_Got an interview in 30, free after that._

_Fancy going for a drink?_ Max sends back.

 _Depends,_ comes the reply almost immediately. _Stopped being a dick now?_

Max laughs despite himself. _I'm buying the drinks, does that count?_

He gets a thumbs-up emoji back, phone buzzing twice in quick succession. _It's a start._

 

They go for beers at a small cafe that's far enough away from the track and sufficiently unglamorous for them not to be hounded for photos. There's a small balcony area and Dan leads them up the stairs to it, finding a table tucked into a corner that affords them some privacy.

“Don’t usually see you leaving the track on a race weekend,” Dan says as he sets a pint down in front of Max. Technically he’s pretty sure they shouldn’t be drinking this close to a race, but he thinks he should be fine with one.

Max shrugs, closing his eyes in bliss at the first cold mouthful. “I guess my family aren’t here this weekend so I have some more free time,” he says noncommittally, and Dan nods slowly, pursing his lips, the same shuttered expression he usually uses whenever Max mentions his dad. It’s not a conversation he feels like getting into now, so he switches the subject. “Do you think I need to change my approach?”

Dan gives him a surprised glance. “I told you, it’s not my place to say.”

Max stares into his pint. “But I’m asking.” He takes a sip before he continues, feeling Dan’s gaze on him. “Christian said I could learn from you.”

Dan is quiet for a moment. Max fights the urge to change the subject. It’s not in his nature to ask for help. He was brought up to keep himself closed to outside influences, to rely only on the directives of a select few and to trust his own instincts at all costs. He thinks it might be time for a change.

“I think you already know what you need to do,” Dan says slowly. There’s a ceramic bowl on the table between them stuffed with small paper sachets of white and brown sugar, and Dan reaches over to take a sachet, tearing off the end and pouring the contents out on to the polished surface of the table. He draws the tip of his forefinger through the pile while he marshals his thoughts, drawing nonsensical patterns.

“I think…” He sighs and twists his mouth, an uncertain gesture. “I think Christian and Helmut are right to some extent. About a lot of things.” He glances up at Max, hesitant, but his eyes are dark and serious. “And yes, if you really want to know, I think you could use some more self-control.”

Max stares at Dan’s fingers moving through the sugar. His skin is damp from the condensation on his pint glass, and the grains of sugar stick to his skin, sparkling where the setting sun hits them.

Dan sighs. “Look at Monaco, right? No, not your weekend,” he says when Max opens his mouth to interrupt. “I mean my race. I mean, it wasn’t ideal, right? It wasn’t like I covered myself in glory out there. Like, China was a better win on the face of it, when you look at the overtakes and the actual performance.” He makes a curious twisting gesture with one hand, his fingers crooked wide, presumably to signify overtaking manoeuvres.

“But you won.”

“Exactly, that's what I mean. If I’d pushed too hard, I’d have been fucked. I’d have run out of fuel or the tyres would have gone or I’d have just put the whole thing into the wall. I had to just stay calm, maybe take it slower than I would have wanted, and it worked for me. I won Monaco.”

He looks up at Max and sighs again, one side of his mouth quirking in a rueful smile. “I don’t know, man. All I’m saying is that you don't always win by being the fastest guy on track. Sometimes it's about playing the long game.”

“But that’s not how I work,” Max says. “If I was patient then I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d still be in junior formulae, _getting more experience_.” He can’t help the sardonic twist on the last phrase. His father’s words from his own mouth. But his dad had been right. He'd fought for a competitive car, ignoring the people who told him he wasn't ready for a seat at one of the big teams, and he'd proven them wrong the very first time he raced in the RB12.

Dan shrugs one shoulder, rubbing sugar between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m not saying it hasn’t worked for you in the past. But if you’re asking, I think you need to learn when to hold back.” He raises his finger to his mouth and licks at the sugar coating his finger, and Max cuts his eyes away. When he chances a look up, Dan is watching him shrewdly. A few grains of sugar cling to his bottom lip.

“When I was a kid, like younger than you are now,” Dan continues, still watching him closely, “my trainer told me about this thing they used to do, a psychological experiment. They put a little kid in a room with a marshmallow on a plate and said, OK, either you can have the marshmallow now or you can wait ten minutes and get three.”

“I don’t like marshmallows,” Max says, just to see Dan roll his eyes.

“Whatever. It can be fucking…schnitzels on a plate, alright? The point is that they followed these kids through school or whatever, right, and the ones who waited and got more marshmallows were more successful. They got that sometimes it’s better to suffer a little bit now because the rewards in the end will be so much sweeter.”

“That’s not the kind of advice I got when I was a kid,” Max says after a moment.

“Yeah, well,” Dan says. “I kinda figured that.”

They’re both silent for a bit, finishing off their beers. Dan drums his fingers lightly on the edge of the table, making the little pile of sugar jump. “OK,” he says thoughtfully. “Let’s go back to my suite and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Max jerks his head up to look at Dan, certain he must have misunderstood, but Dan stares back at him levelly. His eyes are dark and intense, and Max opens his mouth and closes it again, flustered. Dan just looks at him, waiting for him to reply, not pressuring him either way. Max nods, knowing his cheeks are bright red. His fingers are trembling slightly, adrenaline spiking through him, and he hides his hands beneath the table. He feels light-headed.

It’s not that nothing has happened between them before; they’ve had a few makeout sessions, usually after races or nights out when they’re both half-cut and horny. Max privately suspects Dan likes the idea of his younger teammate lusting after him, though he’s never seemed inclined to discuss it further and Max has been happy enough not to rock the boat. This is different. They’ve never done it sober, never discussed it beforehand like this. He’s not sure what Dan is planning, but he’s guessing it’s not a quick handjob in the shower.

Dan cups one hand and sweeps the pile of sugar off the table into his other hand, dumping the whole lot into a planter nearby and dusting the residue off briskly. Max can’t stop staring at the movements of his hands.

“Come on, then,” Dan says, standing, and there’s already something different in his voice, a little more authoritative, and Max scrambles to his feet, obeying the command before he’s even consciously registered it.

 

They walk back to the hotel in near silence. Dan has his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and looks relaxed, gazing at the people sat around tables outside the restaurants, nodding every now and then when fans recognise him and wave. Max keeps his own eyes trained on his feet, praying nobody comes up to try to talk to them, lost in his own thoughts.

He’s so busy watching the ground that he completely misses the fact that they’re back at the hotel and almost overshoots the entrance. Dan grabs his elbow and tugs him back, breaking him from his reverie just before he stumbles.

“Wow, you’re really not with it,” he says gently, his hand firm on Max’s elbow, steering him. “Are you drunk off one beer?” Max shakes his head, trying to bring himself back to the real world, fishing in his pockets to find his keycard to show to the concierge.

He sneaks a glance at Dan in the mirrored wall of the elevator to their room, stood amongst a group of Chinese businessmen. Dan has his hands behind his back, fingers looped loosely around each other, his feet wide, head bowed. It makes Max smile; it’s the same stance he sees on Dan at every race, when they’re standing for the anthems, trying to ignore the media scrum and gaudy celebrations and get themselves in the zone for racing. He wonders what Dan is psyching himself up for here and has to look away to hide the shiver that runs down his spine.

Dan holds the elevator door open for him when they reach his floor. It’s polite, but it also puts Max off-kilter: he has to let Dan point him in the right direction, not knowing which room they’re meant to be going to. He has to look over his shoulder for confirmation every time he turns a corner, and part of him wonders whether it’s deliberate, whether Dan is purposefully getting him lost, exposing the tiniest sliver of vulnerability in Max wherever he can. The thought makes him shivery, and he picks up his pace, almost tripping over his feet when Dan tells him to stop.

“OK,” Dan says once they’re into the suite. Max stays by the door, hands in his pockets, a little bit unsure. Dan casts his eye around the room and hums under his breath, apparently making some kind of decision. He crosses the room, pulling down the blinds to cover the floor-to-ceiling windows across the back of the suite. The blinds are white, thin enough that they let some daylight through, but the room is cast into a roseate shadow, enough to give Max the confidence to peel himself off the door and step further into the room.

Dan crosses to the mini-fridge and takes out a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap carefully and taking a long sip, the muscles in his throat working, before he turns to Max. He wipes his mouth with the back of one hand, contemplating Max’s body shamelessly. He takes a step and grabs one of the large cushions that decorate the couch, tossing it to the floor between them.

“Take your clothes off and kneel on that,” he says, indicating the cushion with the toe of his shoe. Max can’t stop himself from whimpering, an involuntary noise breaking from his throat, embarrassing him. His knees have gone weak. Dan smiles slightly at Max’s reaction, waiting patiently for him to comply.

Max takes a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself, then realises it's essentially pointless and swallows hard before shrugging his hoodie off and pulling his t-shirt over his head. He hesitates with his hands on his belt buckle, but Dan just nods, watching him impassively. Max breathes out and toes off his shoes and socks, then unbuckles his belt and pushes down his jeans and boxers in one go before he can lose his nerve. He steps out of the pile of clothing, hopping slightly to free his stuck left foot, and sinks to his knees on the cushion. His cock is half-hard, jutting from his body, and he folds his hands over his lap, ashamed of his neediness.

Dan steps forward, lining the toes of his sneakers up with the edge of the cushion. He's close enough that Max has to crane his head back to look up and meet his gaze. His head is roughly level with Dan’s crotch and he can smell Dan’s arousal, the muskiness of it below the scent of his laundry detergent. Dan reaches out, cupping Max’s jaw in one hand, his thumb brushing over Max’s bottom lip. His eyelids flutter as he struggles not to close his eyes and sink into the touch. Dan gazes down at him, eyes dark, the hint of a smile playing around the corners of his lips.

“Hands by your sides,” he says softly, and Max flushes, wringing his hands briefly before he gathers the courage to move them away from his lap. Dan presses his thumb to Max’s bottom lip with a little more intent, and he parts his lips obediently, the tip of his tongue darting out as Dan pushes his thumb into Max’s mouth. Max makes a quiet sound, suckling, lapping his tongue against the bitten edge of Dan’s thumbnail. Dan exhales softly, spreading his fingers wide across Max’s jaw and slowly fucking Max’s mouth with his thumb.

Max closes his eyes, moaning quietly, and Dan taps his hand against Max’s jaw, a gentle warning. “No,” he says. “Eyes on me.”

Dan cards his fingers through Max’s hair, brushing the strands back from his face, tilting his head back. Max stares up at him through lidded eyes. Suddenly Dan’s hand tightens into a fist in the hair on the crown of his head, not quite enough to hurt, just holding him in place. Max gasps through parted lips, blinking rapidly, fighting to maintain eye contact.

“You look so good like this,” Dan says softly, tipping Max’s head back further so he’s forced to arch his back. His cock is fully hard now, stiff against his stomach.

Abruptly, Dan lets go of him, and Max drops his chin to his chest, letting his shoulders slump. “Sit up,” Dan says sharply, and waits until Max has complied before he drops to his own knees on to the cushion, drawing Max into a bruising kiss.

Max thinks he gets the rules of the game now, keeps his hands palm-flat on his own thighs, careful not to let his body touch Dan’s. He parts his lips, but Dan retreats every time he tries to deepen the kiss. Max whines against his mouth and Dan laughs, lips barely brushing Max’s, leaning incrementally further back so Max sways with the effort of trying to get close.

“Dan,” Max breathes, appalled at how desperate he sounds already. Dan bites at his bottom lip, tugging the flesh gently between his teeth before pulling back entirely.

“You do realise this is meant to be about teaching you some patience,” Dan whispers, amusement clear in his voice, and Max groans softly but acquiesces, sitting back on to his heels and waiting for Dan to take the lead.

“Good,” Dan says softly, leaning in again, rewarding him with a proper kiss this time, licking into Max’s mouth. Max makes a quiet noise of satisfaction, and Dan smiles into the kiss. He brings up one hand and curves it around Max’s throat, not squeezing, just holding him in place. His other hand roams Max’s chest, thumbing his nipples into stiff peaks, and Max shudders, balling his hands into fists on his thighs.

“You like that?” Dan murmurs against him, grazing his teeth against the skin of his jaw, not quite biting down. Max nods and breathes _yeah, yeah, I like it_ and Dan laughs again, pinching his nipples harder, flicking them beneath his thumb until Max groans, his hips stuttering.

“OK,” Dan says softly, leaning in to kiss Max again. “Hands and knees.”

Max pulls back reluctantly, shifting back off the cushion and settling to his hands and knees, letting his head drop down. His cock hangs heavy and full between his legs, already aching, and he spreads his knees a little wider, arches his back so his arse sticks out. Dan runs an appreciative hand down his flank and over the curve of his arse.

“Yeah, you like this,” he says, and his voice is so different to his usual light tone that it makes Max shiver. He's calm, authoritative, completely in control, and Max closes his eyes, letting it wash over him. “I think you like it when someone else is in charge. Look at you, on your hands and knees for me, desperate for it.” He digs his fingers into the tense muscles on the back of Max’s thigh, making him gasp. “You'd do anything I told you to, wouldn't you?”

Max can't help the full-body shudder, and Dan chuckles. His hand leaves Max’s body briefly and then his fingers return, spit-wet, rubbing between his legs, over the thin strip of sensitive skin behind his balls. Max curses quietly.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Dan says, smug. “You just want someone to tell you what to do.”

His words cut close to the bone, although Max knows there's no malice behind them. He runs his fingers down the length of Max’s cock, teasing the wetness at the slit before shifting his grip to jerk him off properly. Max groans, dropping to his elbows, his arms shaking too much to hold himself up. It's unnerving having Dan behind him, not able to see his face or know what he's going to do next; all he can hear is Dan’s breathing, quiet compared to his own shuddering gasps, and the slick noise of Dan’s hand as it moves on his cock. He lets his head drop to the floor, resting his forehead on his hands, not caring how wanton he must look with his arse stuck straight up. He rocks his hips forward into Dan’s grasp, feeling the pleasure build low in his stomach, _so_ close - and then Dan takes his hand away.

“No,” Max grits out, lifting his head slightly. His hips move of their own accord, chasing friction that's no longer there. “No, don't stop.”

Dan laughs and leans in to press a kiss to the small of Max’s back, speaking against his skin. “Hey. Patience, remember? Good things come to those who wait and all that?” His stubble tickles, and Max shudders and whines.

Dan kisses his way down the dip of Max’s back, biting at the curve of his arse, his large hands palming the flesh, spreading him apart. Max hides his face, quieting the noises that spill from his throat, but it can't muffle the curse when he feels Dan’s tongue touch him, so hot and wet it makes him jump.

“Jesus,” he gasps, grabbing at the fabric of the discarded cushion and twisting it in his fists so hard he thinks it might tear. Dan laughs against him, then licks him again, stiffening his tongue into a point and pushing it just inside the tight ring of muscle. Max is torn between crawling away, overwhelmed and slightly ashamed of how filthy this feels, and pushing his arse back to Daniel’s face, desperate for more. Dan brings a hand up, pushing the tip of a finger inside him and licking around it, and Max can't help but cry out.

His cock is so hard it hurts, dripping precum onto the wooden floor. Dan ducks his head, sucking at his balls, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin of his perineum, taking him apart with practiced ease. Max shakes beneath him, orgasm building once again in the pit of his stomach, and he doesn't think he can fight it this time until Dan wraps his thumb and forefinger around the base of his cock and squeezes, hard.

Max hips jerk convulsively, body fighting the sudden lack of stimulation, held on the edge. It's maddening, an itch he can't scratch. He's hot all over, gasping for breath, every muscle tensed.

Dan waits it out, not moving, just sitting patiently behind him with that tight grip around his cock, just on the right side of painful. It's only when Max stills, settling, the sharp edge of his lust damped down, that he releases his grip, running his thumb through the swell of thick fluid at the tip of his cock. “That's it,” he says gently. “Breathe through it.”

Max takes deep breaths, steadying himself. He's coated in sweat, can feel his hair sticking to his forehead. Dan runs a fond hand down the ridges of his spine, the only warning Max gets before Dan spreads him roughly and leans in again, his tongue fucking into him. It takes every shred of self-control Max possesses not to come on the spot, to concentrate on his breathing, keep himself wavering on the edge.

It seems to go on for hours, although realistically Max knows it must only be minutes. Dan expertly brings him to the brink and back, over and over, systematically taking him apart. He controls Max’s body the way he steers his car, reading the signs and judging each move perfectly, Max’s body betraying his pleasure. Each time he gets close, Dan pulls away, that tight grip around the base of his cock that stops his desire reaching an endpoint.

The fourth time it happens, Max snaps, collapsing into a limp crouch as he brings one hand up to try to touch himself, desperate for the stimulation. His breath comes in agonised gasps, almost sobs. He claws at Dan’s wrist where it holds him firm. “Please,” he begs, though he finds he can barely form words, almost frenzied. “Please, I _can’t_.”

It’s so fast he barely knows it’s happened until he feels the pain bloom across his left buttock, a belated gasp the only reaction he can muster. It isn’t a hard slap by any means, just a skimming of the flat of Dan’s palm across his ass, but it’s enough to make him falter. The sting, slight as it is, gives him a focus, a pinpoint around which to centre himself, and he drops his hand again, bracing himself back on to his hands and knees.

“Yeah?” Dan murmurs, the first time Max hears him unsure, running his hand gently over the flesh he’d just hit.

Max nods, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, damp with sweat. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Do it again. Please.”

There’s a moment of nothing, just the sounds of Dan shuffling around behind him, and the tension spirals in his stomach as he waits, shivering. He’s tense when Dan spanks him again, or maybe Dan puts a little more intent into it this time, but either way it makes him cry out sharply. It’s a sharp burst of pain like a grazed knee, heat immediately spreading from the place where Dan’s hand connects with his skin, a pure counterpoint to the diffuse ache of lust that has the rest of his nerve endings singing.

Dan smooths his hand over the inflamed skin each time he brings his hand down, and Max finds himself lulled by the rhythm, a jolt of pain followed by a caress. He feels weightless, as though he’s floating slightly outside his own body, and the inside of his head is beautifully quiet, an endless expanse of sensation. It’s the sense of freedom he sometimes gets when he’s in the car, the soaring in his chest, but it’s as if he’s taken his hands off the wheel and closed his eyes, waiting serenely for the barriers to meet him.

Dan’s voice interrupts the twilit headspace he’s floating in. “God, the noises you’re making,” he says, and he sounds wrecked himself, squeezing the hot flesh of Max’s arse in both hands until he whines. “Come on,” Dan says, hands at his sides, urging him. Max allows himself to be rearranged, pliant and willing, until he’s kneeling once again.

He’s almost forgotten about the possibility of orgasm until he feels the swollen weight of his cock against his stomach, looks down to see the thin stream of liquid that runs freely from the tip. Dan moves to kneel in front of him, one hand cupping the back of Max’s skull where his head meets his neck, supporting his weight as he sways. He runs his fingertips up the shaft of Max’s cock, and Max breathes deeply through it, no longer frantic for release, content to follow Dan’s lead.

“Look at me, Max,” he says, so quiet it takes Max a few seconds to register his words and comply. Dan smiles slowly, like he's proud, and then his hand is around Max’s throbbing cock, the perfect amount of pressure. Max meets his gaze for one long moment before the pleasure jackknifes through him like a punch to the gut and he has to close his eyes again, his mouth open in a soundless cry as he comes over Dan’s hand and his own stomach so hard he feels like he’s going to pass out.

It’s Dan’s hand at the back of his neck that keeps him from collapsing forward, trembling at the intensity, hips jerking helplessly as Dan strokes him through it. Dan murmurs praise to him, leaning to brush his lips over Max’s damp forehead. Max drops his head to Dan’s shoulder, exhausted and limp, and Dan combs his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, soothing him.

“It’s OK,” Dan says against his temple. “You did good.”

He almost has to bodily lift Max to get him to stand and walk through to the bedroom. Max’s limbs feel like lead, and he stumbles over his own feet as Dan guides him through, arranging him on to his back and wetting some tissue under the tap in the en-suite to clean him up. Max watches his ministrations through heavy eyes, dazed and sleepy. It’s only when Dan steps out of his jeans and sneakers and gets onto the bed next to him that Max realises he had been fully-clothed through the entire thing. His erection is still visible through the thin fabric of his boxers, but when Max stirs and reaches for him, Dan shakes his head, laughing slightly.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you in time to get back to your suite tomorrow before the rest of the team are up.”

Max makes a sound that he hopes passes for agreement, rolling on to his side and allowing Dan to pull the heavy duvet over him. His arse aches lightly where Dan had spanked him, a warm throb.

“Do you want me to leave you be?” Dan asks, and Max reaches blindly over his shoulder until he can clutch at Dan’s thigh.

“Stay,” he mumbles, and feels the bed dip as Dan shuffles closer to him, stroking over Max’s shoulder blades with the flat of his hand.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Dan says.

 

Dan pulls him into a one-armed hug in the garage after the race, squeezing his shoulder. “Nice work,” he says, grinning broadly, and Max shrugs, smiles. He's sticky with champagne, and he knows it's not a top step but right now, it'll do.

“Thanks,” Max says, and he means thanks for the congratulations, but he also means thanks for everything else and they both know it. Dan pats his waist and nods, wandering off to talk to his engineer, leaving Max to receive the praise he's due from Christian and Helmut. It's not a dismissal, he understands: it's the opposite. Dan is making himself scarce on purpose, careful to let Max have this moment to himself. It's a small thing, but he appreciates it.

On the way out to the media pen, Dan touches his elbow. “Coming for a drink later? You should celebrate.”

Max smiles, demure, shakes his head. “I'm getting a flight back to Monaco tonight. I wanna get home, see everyone.”

Dan nods, touches his thumb lightly to the soft skin on the inside of Max’s elbow. “You did good,” he says, quiet enough that nobody else around can hear.

“I know,” Max says, but he's smiling. “Don't go thinking you can take credit.”

“Total coincidence,” Dan says, grinning. “Listen, I'm staying here for a few days, going hiking in Colorado. Want to meet up next week? We can celebrate then.”

There's an unspoken promise in his voice that makes the hairs on the back of Max’s neck stand up. “Sure, I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says, praying he's not blushing.

Dan fucking _winks_ , the smooth bastard. “Cool. I'm sure I can think of another lesson to impart.” He pulls his sunglasses out of his breast pocket, then pauses with them halfway up to his face, snapping his fingers and grinning as something else occurs to him. “Maybe one with an oral exam.”

“Oh my god,” Max splutters, torn between laughter and wanting to sit down with his head between his knees. Dan grins and saunters off, waving at his PR handler who’s been waiting impatiently by the tyre racks. Max watches him retreat, biting the inside of his mouth to hide his grin. He's never been much of a student, but he thinks he can make an exception for the kind of lessons Dan has to teach.

 

 


End file.
